I often watched as Jenny's finger pressed onto the spray nozzle of a chosen body fragrance. She liked the scent of Impulse, the body perfume of the day.
I remember seeing different canisters. Discrete in her clutch bag whenever she slept over. I picture thin metal cylinders of various colours, the spray cans symbol, a stylised butterfly and bold lettering. Now, I recall names declaring their intent, like Always Alluring or Mysterious Musk, a part of Jenny and her confidence.
I feasted my eyes as she pressed and spritzed. She used perfume in the morning around the shape of her body. Jenny directed it carefully near her shaved armpits. My eyes traced a vapour trail across her soft stomach. Followed by a luminous haze as a fast jet of spray flattered her pubic realm.
These shots left a drizzle and sprinkled scent over her skin. Jenny ended her routine in a far-reaching, sweeping arc, allowing perfume vapours to cling to her pores. A broad mist scented her form, arcing from her hips to her breasts in a motion like a conductor's baton. The sprays tend to mix in my mind. None of the perfume scents remains. Yet a young woman's lingering natural odour soars above them.
My congenial partner and I finished sex and lay side by side. My fingers wandered to Jenny's sperm-wet opening in repose, and both of us were on a mental high. I touched the sticky secretions of our joining. It comforted, we shared, we rested, yet I sought more.
Jenny responded, "Don't; it's yucky."
A fair call, considering the mixed emissions oozing in and around her womanhood.
My inspired reply was, "It's only you and me. We're not yucky."
She let my rapt fingers glide through her puffy, unseen labia. My tips slid, eager in our liquid film. Jenny relaxed, sharing the extra gentle genital post-sex attention. A musk aroma wafted in a pervasive, intense, heady burst. It surprised me as it soared and dissipated, as my fingers ceased their enjoyment. I knew intuitively to stop, though neither of us spoke. Together, we created musk.
We never explored a similar experience; the awareness was too hard-wired in its pungent revelation.
Our legs and arms intertwined; we cuddled and reposed—Jenny's scent moment.
I recall tangerine orange and green fern cylinders and wisps of perfume spray. In vain, I seek their aromas. Yet, musk is easily held, not by my nose; it's in my memory.
Jenny's earth smell remains forever musk.
Musk lingered in my mind the following day. A more significant eye-opener came the following evening as Jenny revealed the daydream of her day as we relaxed together in the beanbag at my share-house
Jenny disclosed: "I could feel your presence in me as I moved around today."
I held her tight. I stored her cute exposé in my mind as a keepsake. Cherishing a part of me sojourned with Jenny during the day. Her lush insight lingered as fascinating as her potent musk. Jenny's body felt us together while we were apart.
I happily mused; no fantasy puts you between a woman's legs all day.
I realised we shared skin as close as the skin can get. And Jenny, in her public interactions that day, held raunchy chats with her body. My appealing cutie underneath her public persona felt sexy right through the day.
I should have told her it was my delight to be a part of your sensual daydream.
I recall a Friday night at Jenny's place.
Her hand whirled and swirled spray as she declared simultaneously, "I'm ready; let's go."
We headed out of the city to attend an amateur musical theatre premiere. Jenny 'made the call' crafting our evening together—an invitation from a girlfriend participating in a pantomime and the designer of the sets. Jenny drove, and her excitement regarding the evening's entertainment spilled over me. She gushed, sharing her participation in Godspell in the chorus.
We entered a country town hall already packed. A high-pitched wooden roof, a broad stage and rows of fold-out black plastic chairs. Jenny found her friend in the mill, and they greeted each other warmly in a close embrace.
My amber-eyed girl introduced me. I can't recall her word choice in the noise of the animated auditorium. I do know; I did not hear the word 'boyfriend'.
No worries because the two girlfriends exchanged the, he is okay, look.
I passed muster, suitable male company.
Jenny wished her friend success, and we occupied our ticketed seats.
I remember enjoying Jenny's company and the buzz generated by the musical. Her toes tapped lightly, and she lip-synced the songs. When it concluded, she spent a short time congratulating her friend. I paced in the background, ready to go. I assumed Jenny would drive back to Melbourne regardless of it being late.
She informed me, "I'm tired."
Overnight accommodation slipped my mind, and unfamiliar with the area, I didn't offer any suggestions. We left the venue, and Jenny drove to and parked outside a neon signposted local hotel.
"This will do," she decided.
I mumbled in agreement. My preference remained to drive home. I remained silent.
The hotel's facade of faded red bricks and a blue neon sign indicated nothing classy. There were no signs of rundown; it was tidy and clean as we entered the reception hallway. As a place to sleep, it looked okay, the bedrooms unseen.
Jenny yawned.
Carrying no overnight bags, I sussed an unplanned hotel stop. We located the reception counter. It was after eleven o'clock. Dim hallway lighting framed us, made murkier by fading yellow wallpaper. And beyond the counter, broad stairs, I assumed the rooms above us. While fluorescently bright-lit, the reception desk and the small space behind lay unattended.
Jenny rang the counterbell.
We waited; a large, balding middle-aged guy filled the reception window. I assumed the owner or overnight manager. Jenny took the room booking initiative.
The dude asked her surname, twirling a fountain pen through his hand above the register.
Jenny supplied her name.
I will never forget his smug response.
As he wrote in the guest ledger, he emphasised "Mrs." before the "Taylor" Jenny supplied.
His mouth crooked down at one side, slackening his jaw. My amber-eyed lass never introduced herself using Miss or Ms; I immediately grasped my failure to proceed and make the booking.
I thought, the jerk, stating his thinking, I know you're not married, and I'll let you know.
I wondered about the hotel's late-night clientele. Then, the cheek of the guy, did he spend his evening looking for wedding rings? It hit me. We checked in unusually late. He assumed, I supposed, a pair hooked for quick sex. Another one-night stand room filler!
I stayed quiet, shy and stunned until I stepped beside her.
Jenny held her composure and offered no reaction to his snide 'Mrs.' tag. She watched, and I observed as Mrs. went into the register. She paid, signed the line, J. Taylor, and a waft of alcohol drifted as he pushed the room key across the counter.
I clasped her hand, bounding the stairs, a double creak as we scooted briskly—a dim, dark, wallpapered corridor led to our room from the landing.
I know Jenny never gave away her maiden name. Never in life, Mrs Taylor? Well, once, one night, in a hotel register. I wavered the responsibility of securing a room, paying, and signing. The manager, then, could have announced, 'Here's your room key, Mr and Mrs Moore.' Jenny as Mrs Moore for one night?
Some days in our lives are full of should.
I admit now that I miscued in a hotel room nearing midnight. We undressed and snuggled into the double bed au naturel. Heavy blue velvet curtains wrought instant pitch dark as I clicked off a bedside lampshade.
I initiated petting, excited by her ease of access. Consideration and sensitivity aimed at a fatigued Jenny were missing in my impulsive touching. My amber lass sought her beauty sleep, and her usual cue for sex, light, was plainly absent.
No current thinking beyond myself when tiredness stipulated shut-eye. To sleep together, no euphemism here. My considerate self went AWOL. I initiated straight missionary sex and a rapid finish.
A pooped Jenny managed as I rolled off her, "That wasn't much fun."
Jenny expressed sexual dissatisfaction openly. I deserved a fuller serve as I mated thoughtlessly. Jenny liked visual, energetic intimacy. In the dark and exhausted this was completely absent.
Being young, my mind waxed and waned.
Geez, Jenny, give a bloke a break in bed.
I understood I erred; I cuddled into my Jenny and slept.
I dozed quickly.
After a long day, a lengthy drive, and a musical finishing late, my journey to becoming a sensitive new-age guy was incomplete.